When the Songbird Cries
by Nejidragon
Summary: “Edward.” The blonde flinched, but did not look up. Riza sighed again. ”Why, Edward? Why did you kill Colonel Mustang?” Rated M just because. Nothing M-rated in it yet, but no promises for later.


This was an idea that just popped into my head during the long hours at my job and it morphed into this. Again, no promises with this one. I will probably forget about it or just not care any more in a few weeks, but feel free to steal any and all ideas for your own stories.

I don't own FMA. Obviously. If I did, Travis Willingham would be tied to my bedpost.

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**Chapter 1**

Riza's mouth was set in a thin line as she walked down the small hallways of the Central High Security Prison. Part of her wondered why she was even here. The other part demanded answers. It had been difficult to get to meet with him. It was pretty much written in stone that he was going to be convicted. There had been eyewitnesses and he admitted outright to the crime. The only thing that he had told no one was why. She needed to know.

She was led onto a small, poorly lit room. He was there, strapped down to a chair. His hair hung limply around his shoulders and the dark circles under his eyes stood out on his pale skin.

"Please leave," she said curtly to the guard.

"Miss, he is extremely dangerous. I don't think-"

"I have my gun, should the need to use it arise," Riza ground out, "I need to speak to him. Alone."

The guard looked at her, slightly flabbergasted, before backing out of the room. Once he was out of sight, she sighed heavily and pulled the hard prison-issued chair closer to the other person in the room. The young man had his eyes firmly planted on his knees. The metal collar that the prison staff had been unable to remove from him gleamed in the low-watt prison lighting. His hands were bound to the arms of the chair with heavy leather straps, his feet to the legs in a similar fashion. Additional straps ran across his chest and torso.

"Edward."

The blonde flinched, but did not look up. Riza sighed again.

""Why, Edward? Why did you kill Colonel Mustang?"

There was a sharp intake of breath at the question, but Ed remained silent.

"Please Ed, tell me!" Riza pleaded, desperation seeping into her voice.

"You're going to die for this! You killed a high-ranking officer, a war hero…"she broke off, not trusting her voice. Bringing a hand up to her mouth, she managed to collect herself.

"Edward…"

The blonde sighed. "I…" He scrunched up his face, holding back emotion, "I didn't want to….I…" he sucked in a breath, "I can't tell you." Ed tucked his head down, fingers gripping the chair.

"You'd hate me. And him. Please don't ask me to…I just…I promised I…" A lone tear dripped down his face, but he couldn't even make a move to wipe it away.

Riza bit her lip. What was he hiding? It was obviously something major. She moved to kneel down in front of him so she could see into his eyes.

"Edward, did something…happen between you and the Colonel?" Ed's eyes flashed at the question and he looked away from her. Riza reached out to put her hand over his.

"No, don-" Ed started to say right before her flesh met his. He let out a strangled yell and thrashed in his bindings. It was clear he was in pain. Riza recoiled like she had been burned and Ed leaned forward limply, gasping for breath. She looked up, bewildered, at him and noticed that his flesh around the collar had turned an angry red color. Her eyebrows disappeared under her bangs.

"What…?"

"Don't touch me!" Ed panted, recoiling his hand as far away from her as he could. Riza frowned. Something was seriously off. She could feel it. She leaned in toward the collar, causing Ed to pull a face and lean as far away as his bindings would allow. The band was rather plain. The only distinguishing symbol on the side was a small, ornate design that was unfamiliar to Riza. A small whine from Ed at her close proximity brought her our of her musings about the origin and meaning of the symbol, and she leaned back and sat on her chair.

"How did-" BAM! The door burst open, ricocheting off of the opposite wall, causing Riza to jump and Ed to flinch.

"You have to leave. My supervisor is about to make the rounds and if he finds out I let you in here alone, he'll have my head on a platter." He sauntered forward and roughly shoved the back of Ed's head forward, letting his hand linger on the base of the blonde's neck while the smaller man cried out and strained against the bonds holding him within the other man's grasp. Riza could see the already-irritated flesh begin to swell and blister

"Enough!" Riza snapped. The guard scowled, but removed his hand. Ed slumped forward, panting and eyes streaming with tears of pain. Riza watched as the guard replaced the heavy leather straps with special handcuffs that held Ed's hands apart. He was none too careful about not coming into contact with the blonde's skin. Ed didn't cry out, but Riza could see that the pressure of the swelling under the collar was making breathing more difficult.

"On your feet," the guard snapped, pulling Ed up cruelly by his hair. Ed was careful to keep his eyes on the ground. Riza felt torn on the inside. Such blatant prisoner abuse was cruel, heartless and illegal. Another part of her mind abruptly reminded her of why he was in this situation in the first place. He had murdered Roy in cold blood. Her heart hardened and she turned away as the guard fastened his hand around Ed's wrist, causing his knees to give out as he cried out yet again in pain. The guard sneered and grabbed the back of Ed's shirt, physically dragging him from the room before Ed could get back on his feet. Riza closed her eyes and mentally collected herself before she, too, exited the room just as the guard dragged Ed around a corner and out of sight. She heaved a sigh and pinched the bridge of her nose. She had come in hopes of finding more answers. Instead, she only had more questions.

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Ed lay in a heap on the floor where the guard had thrown him, wheezing and in too much pain to crawl onto his poor excuse of a bed. The coldness of the rough stone floor helped to sooth his irritated neck though, so he wasn't especially eager to move. He tried to bring his hands up to inspect the damage to his skin, but found that the guard had neglected to detach his handcuffs from the chain around his waist. Not that it really mattered much. There was nothing to _do_ in the cell. After the first night when they had found him with his flesh wrist split open nearly down to the bone, they had stripped the cell of everything but the plain mattress and the thin, deteriorating blanket. Every ten minutes someone checked in on him to make sure he was still alive. The staff had already made it abundantly clear that the only reason they were keeping him alive was because the judge had threatened the job of every person involved with Ed's case were he not there on the day of his trial. Everyone wanted to see him convicted, sentenced and executed on the State's terms. Not that Ed blamed them. He had killed a highly respected military official. He had been on his way to the top, and everyone had known it.

"At what cost though?" Ed whispered to himself, letting his metal fingers scrape along the stone. The once smooth metal had long ago scuffed and lost its shine. He closed his eyes and thought of Winry. Had someone told her what he had done? It had been less than a week since he was discovered with the body of his former superior officer by Roy's latest fling. Would she come to him when she found out? Would she hate him? Ed supposed she would. It couldn't be helped now. Sighing, he rolled over and painfully shuffled himself onto the mattress, not even bothering to cover himself with the blanket, and slept.

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Armstrong looked around. The day was wonderful. The sky was a bright blue with the quintessential cotton-puff clouds scattered here and there. Despite the sunshine, there was a bitter breeze that swept over the graveyard. He glanced to his right where Riza stood, red-eyed, but stony-faced. Somewhere to his lift Roy's latest girlfriend was sobbing obnoxiously. They had only been "dating" for two weeks, but she had gushed endlessly about her "lost chance for a real family". Like Roy would have settled for such a woman. Armstrong knew better than that. Roy's heart had lay elsewhere.

He gave himself a mental shake and turned his attention back to the man speaking over Roy's coffin.

_Roy's coffin_. The two words just seemed wrong next to each other. It felt as if someone told him the letters A and Z belonged next to each other, that oil and water were made for each other. The combination gave him a heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach. The past few days seemed so surreal. Now reality slapped them all in the face, and it had hurt. Tears ran down his face. He didn't even bother to wipe them away as his former boss and close comrade was lowered into the ground next to the grave of his best friend.

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"Hawkeye!"

Riza snapped to attention. "Sir?"

The Fuher cleared his throat and waved off the salute. Riza relaxed.

"I need to ask a favor of you. Mustang's office needs to be cleaned out and his work reassigned to other people. Any personal items should be separated and sent to the lawyers. They want to gather as much information as possible. I know I can trust you." He placed a hand gently on her shoulder. "I'm sorry, " he added, "but we have to keep going forward. This office can't cease functioning, nor is it healthy to dwell on the dead." With that, he handed her a key that would allow her access to the place where the memory of Roy lingered the strongest. The place she would have to strip of those memories. Not trusting herself to speak, she accepted the key and nodded. The Fuher left without another word. Riza knew she was expected to complete the task soon. The thought of removing Roy's things from his office pained her, but she was glad the Fuher had assigned her, not someone else, to do it. The idea of a stranger going through Roy's personal things brought up intense feelings of anger and sadness. Gripping the key tightly, she set off toward the double doors that had, until recently, harbored her lazy, useless, wonderful, handsome superior officer and friend.

As she approached the door, she found it partially blocked with cardboard boxes. She knew she was to sport everything in the office into these boxes. Figuring better now than later, she put the key into the lock and turned it, listening to the tumblers clicking into place and the bolt sliding out of the door. The door swung open.

Riza suddenly realized that she had expected something to be different, but nothing was. The stack of unsigned papers lay exactly where they had been for over two weeks.

"Tomorrow, Hawkeye," Roy had said, a mischievous glimmer in his eyes when Riza had pressed him to "just get the damn work done". Of course the work wouldn't be done the next day. She suspected he did it just to spite her, for most of his other work had been completed in a timely manner. Now he would never sign them.

Setting her mouth in a thin line, she carried the stack of boxes into the office. She would sort though the papers first. Riza wasn't mentally prepared to go through of all of Roy's personal artifacts that had accumulated in the office just yet. With a heavy sigh, she lowered herself into the desk chair and set to work, mechanically sorting though, carefully labeling and separating all of the papers on the desk. She eyed the folder of unsigned papers she had fretted about the week before last. She pulled it toward her and opened it, ready to sort through the mound of unsigned papers and re-direct them to other officials who could sign them.

To her utter surprise, the first page had a signature on it. It was also dated exactly two weeks prior. Hastily she flipped through the entire stack. Not a single paper had been skipped; they were all signed! Riza was puzzled. If they had been completed, why had he not turned them in? She reached the last of the papers and saw something written on the back cover of the folder.

'You're cute when you're angry. –Roy'

Riza felt an unpleasant jolt shoot sown her spine and settle in her stomach. She dropped the papers and shoved the chair away from the desk. There was a strange pressure in her chest and she found it hard to catch her breath. After a few seconds, the pressure became too much to bear.

Riza hunched forward and began to cry.

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Is it even worth sticking with? I can't tell. I can never judge how shitty my own writing is.


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